


walk the line

by OnyxSphynx



Series: newmann one-shots [76]
Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, Messing up, Not Pacific Rim: Uprising (2018) Compliant, Post-Canon, and the apologies needed to right things, dESPITE THE SUMMARY I SWEAR IT'S NOT AN ANGSTY ENDING, ish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-07
Updated: 2019-06-07
Packaged: 2020-04-12 01:45:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19122085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OnyxSphynx/pseuds/OnyxSphynx
Summary: After the Drift, when it's all said and done, Newt still leaves.Hermann is left behind, wondering if what they had truly meant so little that Newt didn't even have the decency to say goodbye.





	walk the line

**Author's Note:**

> anon asked: "Would you be willing to write this as a prompt? "I'm here to visit my former lab partner. He may be making some bad decisions. I wish to help. That is…I don't wish to help with the bad decisions.”"

Hermann’s first action after coming out of—or, perhaps more accurately,  _ falling out of _ —the Drift is to stumble, choke, and retch up bile in a discarded toilet. His fingers tremble as they grip the rim, his vision swimming; blood trickles down, onto his lip, the salty tang discomfiting, but he can’t do anything about that  _ now _ ; as Newt would say, the world needs to be saved.

Peripherally, he sees Newton: bruised, bloodied, clothing ripped, torn, and covered in all manner of grime and kaiju fluids, and yet, strangely—

“Here,” Newt says, from behind, pries one hand away from the porcelain, presses a handkerchief—is it his? It looks suspiciously like one of the ones that got lost in the transfer from the Anchorage shatterdome, oh well—to his palm, “you’re bleeding.”

Hermann heaves once more, then, shakily, wipes his mouth with the fabric. “I h—hadn’t noticed,” he says, drily, or tries to, but it comes out more as an unintelligible murmur. He clears his throat, ignores Newt’s concerned look. “Fine,” he manages, “I’m fine. But N—Newton, the plan—”

Words are hard; his tongue, heavy and numb, stumbles over them, and he feels a flash of panic at that—

“It’s not going to work,” the other completes, eyes wide. Hermann nods, tries not to pitch forward, still unsteady; ignored the way his stomach feels even more queasy when Newt darts forward, loops an arm around Hermann’s waist and puts one of Hermann’s over his shoulder.

Mouth suddenly cottony, Hermann asks— _ croaks _ , really—, “How’re we g—getting back?”

The grin Newt tosses him, wild, too wide, a bit  _ feral _ —sends a shiver up his spine. He doesn’t answer, but the sudden, deafening  _ thwop-thwop-thwop  _ of helicopter blades raking through the air is answer enough.

They hobble, ungainly, to where it lands; a great beast of a machine, the minutiae of which Hermann would normally take notice of, but now, his senses are swamped with  _ Newton _ —his hand on Hermann’s back, the red ring around his eye; the soft rustle of his breath that Hermann shouldn’t be able to hear above the roar of the motor, and yet manages to be the loudest sound.

“—Hermann? Hermann, dude, are you okay?” Someone’s shouting—Hermann blinks, refocuses.

Newt’s looking at him, worry easily visible, and Hermann realises,  _ Oh _ , he  _ must’ve been the one shouting _ . He licks his lips, coughs—suddenly, inexplicably unable to summon the proper movements necessary to speak. “Hermann?” Newt shouts, again, “Hermann, c’mon, dude, we gotta go!”

“Right,” Hermann manages, quiet, then, again, louder, slightly hoarse, “right!”

The seats within are cold, hard—the vibrations shake Hermann, jostle his leg, and he hisses. Newt, by his side, squeezes his shoulder. “Hey,” he says—soft, this time, but Hermann can hear him perfectly. “You okay, man?”

“I—” Hermann presses his eyes shut—assembly lines, soaked in blue, inhuman chittering, the scrape of nail against guitar strings, the pain as needles pierce his skin; blinks; these memories are not his own. “...not certain,” he settles for. “Breathing, though, if that helps.”

The other cracks a smile. “Good,” he says, “you hang in there, ‘kay, Herms? We’re gonna be back before you know it.”

Hermann offers what he hopes is a reassuring nod, paired with a smile of his own, but he suspects it falls short—his movements are jerky, and he can’t seem to get his mouth to cooperate for words, let alone for a smile; the blood dried on his skin is tightening, itching, and he drags a shaky hand across his mouth to try and get rid of it.

After a few unsuccessful attempts, Newt grasps his wrist. “Hey, Herms, lemme help.”

Hermann’s trembling—not just from the movement of the helicopter—and he can tell, distantly, that that worries Newt; worries him greatly, the gentleness as he wipes away the dried blood speaking volumes. “...thank you,” Hermann says, at length, the words stymied.

“Yeah,” Newt replies. 

They lapse back into silence—silence, because, despite the roar of the blades above them, the howl of wind, everything seems silent, just the two of them in the whole world. Neither comment of the way Newt keeps his hand around Hermann’s wrist, the way that Hermann, still trembling, leans into him; the way their breathing syncs, for a moment; calm.

* * *

 

LOCCENT bursts into cheers; the war is over. It’s  _ over _ —

Hermann’s legs wobble; threaten to give out. He grips the head of the cane tighter, grits his teeth. Relief mingles with pain—one bleeds into the other until he’s not sure which is which. Newt’s arm, thrown over his shoulders is an anchor, but only barely.

“I don’t think I can stand,” he tries to say, but his throat works soundlessly, the words cut off before he can even form them. He tries again—nothing. Panic rises; stripped of his means of communication, in pain—he—

Newt’s face snaps into focus, his hand on Hermann’s cheek. “Hermann?” he asks, eyes wide, “hey, are—are you okay? I can feel your panic—”

And just like that, Hermann finds he can speak again,  _ breath  _ again, words spilling forth, rapid and disjointed. “I—my leg—I—”

He stumbles, nearly crashing into one of the J-techs, drags Newt with him. “Woah!” Newt exclaims, steadying him. “Hermann, hey, I’ve got you. I’ve got you, okay?” He pauses, and the silence is sharp, everything’s swimming back out of focus—“Do you wanna get out of here?”

“Y—yes,” Hermann croaks, leans against Newt more; he’s the only thing that feels real, tangible—everything else, a mirage that’ll disappear if Hermann touches them.

Newt nods, adjusts his grip so that Hermann’s not in danger of pulling them back down again. “Okay,” he says, “let’s go.”

Progress is slow; Hermann’s not fit to walk rapidly, and Newt matches the pace to what he can manage. “We should...we should go to medical,” Hermann murmurs, the sound muffled by the drop of his head. 

“Mhm,” Newt hums, oddly agreeable.

They don’t talk again—the exhaustion, Hermann thinks, is a large part. 

Medical is bright; the light makes his eyes ache, and the left one itches hellishly, suddenly. Newt hovers at the side of Hermann’s bed before the doctor forces him into one of his own. Hermann can sense Newt’s displeasure—the Drift, or simply familiarity, he doesn't know.

The barrage of tests that follow makes his already aching head spin. “I just want painkillers,” he snaps, finally, batting away one of the nurse’s hands. “And—”

“Yes, Doctor Gottlieb, we’re attending to him,” comes the weary response. Hermann wonders if his own worry is truly that apparent. “Actually,” continues the nurse, flipping through the pages on her clipboard, “surprisingly, he’s doing better than you are—he’ll be released tonight, under strict orders to not overexert himself. You’ll have to stay, however.”

“But—” Hermann tries to protest before what feels like a sledgehammer slams behind his left eye; hisses, doubles over, panting, one hand gripping the coarse sheets in a white-knuckled grip, the other pressed against his eye.

The nurse lets out a sympathetic hum. “It’s alright, Doctor Gottlieb, you’ll be on your feet and arguing with Doctor Geiszler before you know it, I promise.”

Hermann grits his teeth.

* * *

 

Mako visits him the next day. She looks weary—carries herself as close to uncertainty as Hermann thinks is possible. When she speaks, though, her voice doesn’t waver. “How are you, Doctor Gottlieb?”

He offers a thin smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Not well enough to leave, apparently,” he returns. “Though they let  _ Newton  _ leave already.” 

Something like a smile flickers on her face for a moment.

Hermann feels, suddenly, horrifically awkward; what can he say? After all, it’s because of the information he and Newton found out that the Marshal died. Mako, ever-observant, parses his thoughts before he can even begin to formulate them. “He died as he lived,” she says, softly, “for a cause he believed in. None of us are to blame for that.”

There’s a lump in Hermann’s throat, still. “He died a hero,” he says, shakily.

Mako nods.

She remains for a bit longer, telling him, quietly, of what happened; when she describes the fear and pain in the moments she’d thought Raleigh had died, and then the shock of relief afterwards, Hermann thinks,  _ oh _ .

It shows on his face, apparently, because she pats his arm, gives him a knowing look.

* * *

 

“Has Doctor Geiszler come in while I’ve been asleep?” he asks the doctor hopefully.

She shakes her head. “No—he hasn’t been in since the day he brought you here.”

“Oh,” says Hermann, trying to hide his disappointment. “Well, it must be his dislike for clinical settings.”

The doctor shakes her head. “No, he’s busy with something.”

“Oh,” says Hermann, again, more softly; sadly; wonders why it hurts so much. “Not even once?”

Another shake of her head. “I can tell him you requested him, if you’d like?”

“No, thank you,” he replies, turns his head so that she can’t see the tears threatening to spill down his cheeks.

Later, he texts Newt.

There’s no reply.

* * *

 

It’s not until later—months later—that he learns what has happened.  _ MIT asked me to come back,  _ Newt’s email reads,  _ like, they were psyched at the thought. But the next semester was starting like three days later—education stops for no one, not even the apocalypse—so I had to get there as soon as I could. _

_ Sorry I didn’t get to tell you,  _ he placates,  _ I meant to, I really did, but life—well, you know how it is. _

Hermann would like to be able to summon up anger; to call the other and yell at him, demand an explanation— _ I thought this would change things! _ —but all that’s there is an ache, like that from being out in the frigid cold for two long; so cold it almost starts to feel warm despite all reasoning to the contrary.

He changes the caller ID from  _ Newt  _ to  _ Doctor Newton Geiszler _ .

Newt doesn’t call.

* * *

 

“You heard anything about Dr. Geiszler recently?” asks one of the interns, fiddling idly with a pen as he waits for the program to load up. Hermann, scalpel poised above the sample of kaiju liver, freezes. 

“No, why?” he asks; measured. Wonders if the tremble of his words is only apparent to him.

The intern—Kevin—shrugs. “Just wondering,” he says, “since you guys were close. I figured you might know something about his whole kaiju-cloning thing—”

Hermann drops the scalpel with a clatter. “His  _ what? _ ” he demands, can feel his face drain of blood; suspects, by the way Kevin pauses, eyes wide, that he’s reacting  _ badly _ , but—

But. “I have to go,” he says, abruptly, peels off the nitrile gloves and grabs his cane. Kevin might say something to that—he doesn’t know. Reality feels dull, whited out.

His mind is roiling—terror, anger and a thousand others thrown together in a chaotic mix; is  _ this  _ what Newton abandoned him for? His  _ kaiju? _

A quick search reveals the next flight to Boston departs in forty-five minutes.

* * *

 

“What are you in Boston for?” asks the taxi driver.

Hermann’s first instinct is to snap; instead, he says,  “ I'm here to visit my former lab partner. He may be making some bad decisions. I wish to help.” He watches the trees streak by.

“That is…I don't wish to help with the bad decisions,” Hermann clarifies, “I...I don’t know if I can do anything,” he confesses, and then, “this is quite odd, you know; I don’t usually give out details of my life to strangers.”

The driver laughs. “Yeah, you don’t seem like the type,” she agrees. “Good luck with him, though—I hope you guys manage to work it out.”

“As do I,” Hermann murmurs, “as do I.”

* * *

 

He doesn’t bother knocking. The door bangs open, followed by a, “Hey, gimme a min, I’m a bit busy—”

“Newton  _ Geiszler _ ,” Hermann hisses, “I cannot  _ believe _ —”

“ _ Hermann—? _ ” Newt whirls around; safety goggles over his glasses, mouth comically wide. “You didn’t—”

“ _ Call? _ ” Hermann laughs, derisive. 

Newt pulls off the goggles. “Uh,” he says, “yeah. Look, man, I’d love to catch up or whatever, but I’m a bit busy right now—”

“With your  _ kaiju?  _ Which you  _ never said anything about in your emails? _ ” Hermann snaps, and Newt’s expression morphs from surprise to irritation.

“If you start lecturing me, Hermann, I  _ swear— _ ”

“ _ No! _ ” Hermann shouts, trembling, now, with anger. “Don’t you  _ dare!  _ Do you know how many nights I lay awake, wondering why you practically abandoned me, Newton? And then—then—” he drags in a breath, stalks forward until he’s practically towering over the other. “I find out it was for  _ kaiju _ . Of course—are you even capable of caring for anything— _ anyone— _ besides yourself and your kaiju?  _ Can you? _ ” He jabs the other’s chest with his index finger, teeth bared. “Is it your  _ intention  _ to bring about the second apocalypse, or are you truly that blind to your own folly?”

Newt stares at him, wide-eyed, wordless, and Hermann deflates, suddenly; backs away. “Goodbye,” he says, the fight drained out of him, and walks out.

* * *

 

“Hermann! Wait!” Newt calls, and Hermann turns. 

The other’s practically sprinting after him, hair in a disarray. “Wait!” he calls again.

Hermann debates not doing so; debates turning back and walking away; leaving Newt. But—

He doesn’t. He stops, waits for the other to catch up to him.

“Hermann,” Newt pants, doubling over. Finally, he catches his breath. “I—I didn’t mean—I wasn’t—” he stops, starts again. “I wasn’t thinking,” he says, and it sounds miserable. “I just—I was offered a position, and then I got pulled into possible experiments with kaiju cells, and  _ cloning  _ kaiju, and I—I wasn’t thinking.”

“No,” Hermann agrees, “you weren’t.” There’s still an edge of anger, but mostly, he’s just— _ weary _ .

Newt pauses, bites his lip, and then says, “I...I didn’t mean to hurt you, Hermann.”

“You still did.”

“I know. I’m sorry,” Newt says, casts his gaze downward. “I don’t...I don’t expect you to forgive me, just...I want to let you know I’m sorry. I didn’t—I didn’t mean to hurt you, or make you feel like what we had wasn’t important, I just—I got caught up in my head.” Hermann opens his mouth to speak, and Newt holds up a hand. “I—I’m not saying that as an excuse, I swear. And I  _ am  _ sorry, Hermann.”

They lapse into silence for a moment, before Hermann says, “Thank you.”

Newt nods. “It’s the least I can do. That was an asshole move of me to pull, and...I’m sorry.” He gives Hermann a hesitant look before he adds, “I missed you.”

“...I missed you as well,” Hermann replies, after a moment, and nearly falls over when Newt drags him into an embrace.

“I’m—I’m sorry,” Newt says, barely loud enough to hear, and grips him tightly. Hermann grips back just as tightly after he gets over his surprise.

“Perhaps...perhaps you’d like to talk about this more at length?” he suggests, when they break apart. There’re tear-tracks dried on Newt’s cheeks, as well as, he suspects, his own. 

Newt gives a tiny nod. “Yeah, you’re right,” he says. “Um—do you wanna pop downtown for a bite to eat? It’s kinda late—you’re probably hungry. I’ll pay,” he adds.

Hermann contemplates the offer for a moment. “I...yes,” he says. “That would...that would be nice.”

* * *

 

The place Newt takes him to is a deli. Newt wolfs down his sandwich; Hermann takes measured bites of his own Reuben. 

“You can’t do it,” Hermann says; doesn’t specify  _ what _ . “Newton, you  _ cannot _ —it’s such a monumentally  _ idiotic  _ idea, nevermind the  _ dangers _ —”

“I know,” Newt interrupts. “I...I know. I just—no one here tells me _no_ , you know? Like, I say something, and they’re like _oh Newt how can we help you_ instead of _are you crazy!?_ And,” he sighs. “I’m not good with that, Hermann. I didn’t—I didn’t stop to think.”

“I didn’t know,” Hermann says, uselessly.

Newt gives him a thin smile. “I didn’t expect you to,” he says.

They sit there, silent, again, before Newt says, abruptly, “The truth is...the truth is I can’t do this, Hermann. I can’t—I can’t stay in academia. It’s driving me crazy, dude.”

“Alright,” says Hermann. “What do you want me to do about it?”

“I...” Newt pauses. “I need...I need  _ you _ . You’re the only one who gets me, Herms, the only one willing to call me on my bullshit. I just...I want to go back. I want to work with you again.” He sounds, Hermann thinks, terribly, terribly tired.

He licks his lips. “I can’t guarantee that our relationship will go back to being the same as it was,” he warns. “We know each other too intimately for that—there’s too much history between us to pretend otherwise.”

Newt closes his eyes. When he opens them, there’s a new alertness there. “I know,” he says, “but I...I want to try. Even if it doesn’t work—even if it’s awful sometimes...I  _ want  _ to, Hermann. I’m sorry I ever made you doubt that.”

They lapse back into silence, Newt fidgetting, fingers tapping away at the table, and he avoids Hermann’s gaze.

When Hermann finally finishes, he rises, moves to throw away his napkin, and Newt slumps—dejected, Hermann realises.

He walks back, offers his hand. “We ought to go if we’re going to catch our flight back,” he says, simply.

Newt’s head snaps up. “You got a ticket for me?” he asks, surprise colouring his tone.

“Well, I had...I had hoped that I would be able to convince you to return with me,” Hermann admits. “However, I see that was...a bit presumptuous of me.” He begins to drop his hand.

Newt practically leaps out of his seat and grabs it. “Are you kidding me?” he laughs, “c’mon, Herms, let’s catch this plane.” He interlocks their fingers and squeezes Hermann’s hand.

Hermann’s heart leaps. “Yes, we should,” he agrees, shakily, for one, not out of anger or exhaustion, and when Newt grins at him, bright and almost carefree, he finds that it’s infectious. 

**Author's Note:**

> you can find me at [three-black-cats](https://three-black-cats.tumblr.com/) on tumblr


End file.
